


Interrogation Tactics

by Eonneo



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Abuse, Begging, F/M, Humiliation, M/M, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-08-27 02:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16693927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eonneo/pseuds/Eonneo
Summary: Arthur Morgan is a man who knows what he wants, and gets what he wants, and you're unfortunate enough to experience what he does to achieve those wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This is some light abuse, so trigger warning. Otherwise, if this is your kind of thing, I hope you enjoy it. I am in no way condoning abuse, but instead use writing fictional characters to help express it for those who may enjoy it. I wrote it so the reader is ambiguous and can be whatever gender you prefer. I understand this may be just a BIT over the top for Arthur, but I felt he'd fit this position well.  
> And please forgive me for my sins against humanity.  
> Thank you.

You were running as fast as your tired legs would carry you. Dirt and debris kicked up behind you, branches scraping at your clothes, leaving tears. Your breath came in quick, sharp gasps, the space in your chest burning hotter than fire. Freedom was just through the trees, and you could see it. Feel it.  
The will to be free wasn't enough. With a horrific thud, you were forced to the ground, the weight of the man on your back. There wasn't even a moment to yell, the air knocked out of you so abruptly that you feared it wouldn't return. As you tried to breath through the bandanna on your mouth, you felt rough hands push you over to your back then partially pull you up by your shirt collar.  
“I told you not to make me angry,” Arthur said. You recognized him, but of course, he had no clue who you were, your identity hidden.  
Before you could reply, say anything to ease the tension, there was a fist to your jaw. No noise from you, no yelp, just a horrific thump. Dazed, head swimming, you nearly lost consciousness. In the moment, your hat fell and your bandanna slipped off. An eerie quietness followed, though you weren't sure if it were true silence or if you had went deaf from the assault.  
“You?!” Arthur blurted, instinctively letting go of your collar. You dropped to the ground with yet another thud. There was an awful ringing, a bell in the distance, only for you to realize it was in your head.  
“Who the Hell you workin' for?” he then demanded, taking your jaw in his hand. His weight was crushing your chest, and without much thought, you tried to raise your fist and punch him. You made contact, but it was weak, Arthur grabbing your wrist and forcing it by your head.  
“I don't like hittin' old friends, but I sure ain't afraid to. Now talk.”  
“Go to Hell,” you whispered, unable to get a proper breath to say more.  
Arthur laughed, giving a curt smile.  
“Where do you think I come from?” he assured, releasing your wrist and face. He reached behind him and took out some rope, making quick work of hog tying your hands and feet. The haze in your head began to clear, but you still felt awful, Arthur's strength having left its mark.  
“Since you don't wanna' make this easy, I'm gonna' make sure it's as hard as can be.”  
He whistled, horse trotting through the trees. With what seemed like little effort, you were tossed onto the back and tied to the saddle. Mounting the horse, he set off, every step of the beast rocking you into discomfort. There was no energy in you to say anything, to protest. Only hope the ride would end quickly and that Arthur would have some sort of mercy for you.  
The night was just beginning, moon lazily wadding through the sky. It was a clear night, but clouds teased the horizon with rain. You had no recognition of where you were, or where you may be going, and the hope of mercy or freedom disappeared with the stars.  
After what seemed an eternity, the two of you came upon a cabin. It was old and dirty, but in one piece. The area obviously seemed secluded and a tad swampy, humid air brushing past you. Arthur hitched his horse and picked you off of it like a bag of flour, bringing you inside. You almost whimpered as you watched the outside world disappear, closed off by dark wood.  
He abruptly tossed you on the floor, and then began to move about the cabin as if you didn't exist, getting out shiny glasses that did not befit the cabin and a bottle of unknown alcohol. After, he worked on the fireplace.  
“So, now that we're here, let me be the first to say that I have not a clue what is going on or what you want.”  
“Mhm, sure,” he replied, as If he weren't paying attention. When the fire was lit, he returned to you, getting down on a knee. His fingers slid into your hair, turning into a fist and angling your head sideways by the fire's light. Arthur was quiet at first, then gave a soft 'hm'.  
“I know you,” he decided.  
“Do you?” you answered.  
He let go of your hair, and you awkwardly fell back against the floor.  
“You used to ride with us, didn't you?”  
“Maybe. What's it matter?”  
“You did. You disappeared when all that disaster happened in Blackwater.”  
“Didn't disappear. I was arrested and fit to hang. Escaped right before they tied that noose.” You had some hope that Arthur would remember you, and your positive part in the gang. That the whole situation could be finished.  
“We thought you's dead,”  
“Well, I weren't.”  
“That's too bad for you, then, cuz' I heard you weren't dead and was runnin' with the O'Driscolls now.”  
You were shocked at his accusations. It was right that you had done some work with them, but you were hoping to find Dutch's gang and stop them, having accidentally ran into them when escaping Blackwater.  
“You must be hard of hearin' then!” you spat, a defensive instinct.  
“I don't think so.” He stood up, placing a large boot onto your chest and slamming you to the floor. From his holster, he pulled his double-action revolver, aiming the barrel at your head. “After all we did for you, too.”  
“Really? As long as I ran with you, you're gonna' accuse me of something like that?”  
“It's not an accusation if it's true.”  
“I cannot believe you!”  
Would he really shoot you? Of course he would. You knew Arthur. He was ruthless, tough and did what he felt needed to be done. It's why he and Dutch were so close. Arthur had gotten away with murder more times than one could count, and he wasn't afraid to add another notch onto his belt.  
There was silence between the two of you, his blue eyes looking down upon you in harshness. Was this the same Arthur you knew before Blackwater? He looked demented. Meaner.  
He dropped his gun back into the holster and removed his foot, though you still felt its pressure for a bit after.  
“We're gonna' have a little fun. Celebrate our reunion. I'm sure you'll be talking by the end of it.”  
“You really that dumb, Morgan?” You hoped using his last name would knock some sort of sense into him.  
A quick, sharp kick to your side caught you off guard, and you fell over in pain, coughing profusely.  
“I'm a lot of things, friend, but dumb is not one of them.”  
“Aw, Hell,” you groaned. This was insane to you. You had never known this side of Arthur before, and really didn't want to learn it now. But you had no weapons, nobody to look for you, and no real advantage over a man twice your size, alongside being tied.  
“Where are they?!” he yelled, knee into your chest and hands on your neck. It was happening quickly, and you had no time to adjust.  
“They kicked me out before I could figure it!” you pleaded.  
His other hand slapped your face, the one on your neck keeping your head in place, dispersing the force more and hurting a hell of a lot more.  
“You're tellin' me they didn't kill you? They just kicked you out?”  
“I ran! Just like in Blackwater!”  
“You're lyin'!” His knee dug deeper into your chest, and you began to gasp for air. There was a twinge in your sides, as if your ribs were going to cave at his weight. Without much effort, you tried to knee him in the back, but your tied legs had no force behind them. He angled himself over your midsection, straddling you and immobilizing your thighs.  
“I'm tellin' you what I know! Last I heard they was goin' through Strawberry, through the valley!”  
“You know where! I know you do!” he pressed, another slap to your face. The pain was becoming unbearable in your body, but you didn't give him the pleasure of even a whimper.  
“I'll stop as soon as you tell me where they're at.”  
“If I haven't told you by now, I don't know!” you begged. There wasn't much fight left in you, and you began to fear death while at the same time hoping for it, the pins and needles ebbing throughout your muscles.  
“You think you're tough, don't you?” he began, stepping back from you. He sighed and went over to the table, picking up the bottle of alcohol. The cap opened and he downed a few drinks straight from the bottle, before looking down at you.  
“You just need a little more help, is all.” He was back over you, straddling you. You had been trying to sit upright, but he pressed your neck and head into the floor, knees at either side of your torso to pin you in.  
“Why not have a drink?” he teased, putting the bottle at your mouth. You refused, the smell of the bitter liquid sharp and bringing you to your senses just a bit. When it became apparent you weren't going to oblige, he began to squeeze your neck, taking the breath from you. After a moment, he let go, and you opened your mouth with a gasp. The alcohol – whiskey – poured in and down your throat, burning, dripping down your chin. It was a good amount before he stopped, taking another drink himself before setting the bottle aside.  
“Now, how about you talk? Or do you want more?”  
“Last – time – I'm – telling – you. I – don-t – know – where – they – are,” you managed between gasps. This was it. He was going to kill you.  
“Goddamnit!” he cursed, standing up and taking himself over to a chair. He seemed angry, sighing at times and shaking his head, occasionally taking a drink of whiskey. The bottle was nearing empty, and as he thought over whatever he was thinking, you began to feel its effects. The pain in your body dulled to a throb, but your head only become a haze.  
“Fine,” he finally said, getting up and tossing another log into the fire. It made a loud cracking sound, bringing you back into consciousness just slightly. “You'd have talked by now. If not, then I commend you for keeping your mouth shut during all of that.”  
He was standing over you with a knife, sharp and shiny by the flames. Drunken, beaten and miserable, you tilted your head back, hoping he would do it quickly. But the blade never touched your flesh, the sound of tearing ropes the only thing you noticed. Your arms were free, then your legs. Even in your stupor, you pushed yourself to a seated position. It was over.  
Or almost so, Arthur stepping behind you. His knee dug into your back, other leg at your side. There was a tug on your hair, exposing your neck. The barrel of his revolver shone in your face.  
“Once you've gotten over this ordeal, I want to see you back at our camp. I'll be at the inn in Valentine. If I don't see you there in the coming days, I will hunt you down like the vermin you are. And I assure you, if anyone hears about what happened up here from your mouth, I will make sure not another word ever comes from you. Do you understand me?” His voice was rough and dark, and you knew he meant it. There was no way you were able to talk, and so you just gave a curt nod instead.  
“Good.” He dropped you, giving a small pat onto your shoulder before tipping his hat and walking out the cabin door, leaving you to your own thoughts and the fire. Weak, defeated, and sore, you quickly succumbed to your need to rest, giving no thought to what your future life may hold in the camp.


	2. Until I'm done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is a man who knows what he wants. What he wants he just so happens to want from you, and he assures that he gets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter was beyond popular, and people seemed to want more. So here is more. The promised non-con. Please be aware I am not condoning these actions in any form, but I understand some people may like this kind of thing and figure writing fictional stories is a good, safe way to give those people what they want. So here it is. Enjoy. I'm very proud of it. I also somehow managed to make a sex scene ambiguous in gender, so a male or female can enjoy it.  
> I don't think I'll be adding another chapter, unless someone commissioned them or it just becomes even more popular.

You had ran with the gang for a few weeks now. When you met Arthur at the hotel, he was civil. He commended you on your ability to keep your mouth shut during his 'interrogation' as he called it, but that he didn't trust you. He was in charge of you in the camp, and he was to make sure you didn't betray them – again, in his mind.  
The bruises had subsided, and you felt like your old self again. The gang welcomed you back, for the most part, and you fell right in to caring for them. You hunted, robbed and stole what you needed, and it felt quite good.  
Life was normal. That was, until Dutch ordered you and Arthur to scope out a possible O'Driscoll camp. Of course he wanted you to go. Everyone thought you knew about them. And you did, but what you knew was in the past and of no use now. However, the entirety of the gang was far too hot-headed to care about that kind of thing.  
Even further, you had yet to get a horse. Stealing one seemed obvious, but most horses in the area were branded, and stealing a horse in the area meant it was likely to be spotted if ridden. It was with much reluctance you were stuck riding on the back of Arthur's horse, a brown shire. You had done well to avoid him in camp, but here you were, right behind him, and no chance to duck and roll unless you wanted to break a bone.  
Arthur said nothing aside from, “Don't fall off,” when you two mounted the horse. It was a rough ride, and at one point you had to hold on to Arthur's sides to keep steady. He didn't seem to mind, but you sure did.  
The two of you rode a while, the sun beginning to set in the distance. You weren't even sure where you two were going. Dutch refused to tell you, in case you had a way to 'warn' the O'Driscolls that you were coming. Arthur could have taken you anywhere, and you'd be none the wiser to it. The feeling of helplessness was greedy for your attention.  
Over the horizon was a forest, green and dark. The horse had trouble riding through it, the occasional branch scratching your arm or hitting your forehead.  
“Is this really where we need to go? Shouldn't we just walk?”  
“Mind yourself,” was all he replied.  
“Hmph,” you sighed.  
Through the trees was a cabin. An apparently abandoned campsite was in front of it, the fireplace still smoldering. Arthur's horse spun in nervous circles around it.  
“Just missed them, damnit,” he cursed. “Did you do this?!”  
“Don't start that with me!” you demanded, just to receive an elbow in the ribs. With that, you slid off the horse, backing up with a hand over your side. “I am not going through this again just because you're too stupid to see I don't know a damn thing about them O'Driscolls.”  
Arthur fell off his horse with a thud. He looked intimidating, and you couldn't deny it. Black duster over top his black slacks and shirt, leather hat resting on his short hair. He looked like an undertaker, or death himself. And that name was far too befitting of Arthur to make you comfortable.  
“Now, tell me why you think I'm gonna' let you get by with callin' me stupid? Seems the only stupid one here is you,” he reasoned. His voice was a deep rumble, and it shook you.  
“Says the guy who still can't find the enemy gang.”  
He gave one quiet, curt laugh. You should've ran in that moment, went through the trees and disappeared. But he would've followed you. Arthur would find you. Even if he couldn't find the enemies. Of course, he wasn't as focused on them as he was you in this moment. And even if he didn't find you, he would have told the gang some big lie as to what had happened. Maybe he brought you here because he knew there would be nobody. There was no safe space for you.  
Each step he took bothered you, loud against the grass and dying winds. An impending feeling of pain and despair befell you. Why was this man bent on hurting you?  
With one final step, he was in front of you. Your breaths were shallow and short. No gun at your sides. No knife. Nothing to help you. How dumb were you to come with him?  
Arthur took hold of your collar, almost pulling you into the air. But he just held tightly, fist balled over the fabric. His free hand unholstered his gun, the barrel coming to rest at your temple.  
“I made a mistake not killing you last time.”  
“Maybe so,” was all you replied.  
“Maybe so,” he echoed. The butt of the gun made harsh contact with your cheek, Arthur dropping you to the dirt. “But I won't make that mistake again.”  
The gun was pointing at you. You felt pathetically helpless on the ground, and didn't even bother making eye contact with Arthur. This was it. All your years, all your experiences had lead to this point. This ending. Dying at the hands of one of the cruelest men you had ever had the displeasure of knowing. You felt like none of the pain had been worth it. None of your success mattered when it ended like this.  
Silence.  
“That's too easy, isn't it?” he questioned.  
“Just fuckin' do it already, coward.”  
A kick to the ribs. It was just like before.  
“Watch yourself,” he growled.  
“Fuck,” you groaned, unable to take in a proper breath.  
Arthur knelt down, taking your head by a handful of hair. He was trying to pull you up, and to avoid anymore pain, you went with it, your feet scraping at the dirt until you were steady.  
“Let's go.” His hand moved to your neck, the gun barrel at the back of your scalp. Arthur was pushing you towards the cabin, walking behind you in step. You were the one to open the door. Inside was dreary, and looked as if it had been ransacked, the smell of old wood filling your senses.  
With a shove, you were back on the ground, Arthur kicking the door closed with his foot. He fell to his knees, straddling your back, shoving your face to the dusty floor.  
“What -is – wrong with – you?” you mustered.  
“Lotta' things. I had so much fun last time. Figured I'd have a little more.”  
“Fuck off!”  
He twisted his hand into your hair, pulling it and pressing you harder into the floor.  
“Insult me again. Go ahead. I implore you.”  
You said nothing, more from his weight making it hard to breath than your inability to challenge him.  
“Now that we have that settled,”  
It wasn't hard for him to handle you how he wanted. He was bigger. Stronger. Better.  
Arthur pushed off of your back, giving you a moment to breathe. With the hand in your hair and one onto the fabric of your clothes, he lifted you up, elbowing you to the wall by your neck.  
“I think I like seein' you like this.”  
You wanted to reply – something bitter – but were cut off with an entirely unexpected kiss. It was harsh and tasted of tobacco and liquor. With your arms free, you pushed him back, which only worked mostly because he didn't seem to be expecting it.  
He had a twisted grin on his face. You had to get away from him – probably get away from the entire gang. This was only toxic and dangerous. As such, your left foot first moved to take you to the door, but it never made contact, your body slammed back against the wall with Arthur's brute force. He had your jaw in his hand, the other resting on the wall by your head.  
“You ain't leavin' til' I'm done with you.”  
“I'll leave when I damn well please!” you insisted, offering a punch to his stomach. Didn't do much, but he let go of you again. Your feet hit in step hard, the door not far from your reach. You had an idea to steal Arthur's horse and disappear. But he had different plans, his arm reaching around your side, tossing you to the wooden planks of the cabin's floor.  
“You are a goddamned monster!” You began scrambling to get up, panic settling.  
“You have no idea!” he shouted.  
A foot to your shoulder blades was his next tactic. Your body began to burn and ache and throb from all of his abuse. You just wanted him to leave you alone.  
Arthur turned you to your back and straddled your lower torso. In his left hand was a flask.  
“This seemed to help last time. Let's get you relaxed.” Just as before, he choked you until you gasped for air, pouring the alcohol into your mouth. You coughed violently, though didn't have much to move with his weight on you.  
“Stop it!” you grunted between your fits. He finished off his flask himself and tossed it aside, leaning down and forcing his lips to yours. You used your hands to push his at his chest, to try and push him off, but his free hand – the one off your neck – took hold of your wrists, dropping them to your chest. His strength astounded you.  
Arthur stopped, pulling away just slightly. He looked at you with a fire in his gaze, an insatiable hunger to make you miserable. The breaths he took where shallow and short.  
You knew he wasn't paying attention. With one quick jerk, a hand was free of him, and you used it to hit his temple. It only angered him further – if that were possible – and he gave a hard slap to your cheek.  
“When will you learn?” he asked through grit teeth.  
“When will you just fuck off?”  
“When I'm done with you!” He had moved enough that one of your legs could slip between the two of you. With what remaining force you could muster, you reared back and kicked him in the gut, backing away uneavenly towards the foot of a bed.  
He was toppled over for a moment, and when he looked up at you, the feeling of despair that had became so prevalent washed over you. This is was it. You were fucked.  
“You think you're tough. You think you're just the greatest thing since God,” Arthur began, rising from his toppled position on the floor. “I'm gonna' show you what you really are. What the Devil can do.”  
There he was, in front of you, a fist connecting with your jaw. Your body nearly went limp onto the foot of the bed, ears ringing and face throbbing with pain. You had no time to adjust, or to try and gather yourself. Arthur had arched himself between your legs, his hands reaching for your wrists. You tried to loosely hit him, but it didn't do anything, his strength pinning your wrists above your head.  
“Stop fightin' me!”  
You nearly obliged him, but not because you wanted to. You were physically exhausted, having been fighting him this whole time. You were weaker than him. Smaller. He had more stamina. Overpowering him was just going to be impossible.  
This was the third time he had kissed you. Without much choice, you let it happen. He was on top of you, restraining you, and you knew he'd win any fight you tried to give him.  
His tongue entered your mouth, sticky with some unknown liquor and the faint taste of chewing tobacco. Part of you thought about biting him, but the other part knew that would be a mistake.  
You felt his free hand under your shirt, pulling your hips closer to him from your lower back. Through his slacks, you could feel he was hard, his hips grinding against yours.  
“Goddamn,” he whispered, pulling away from you. With one quick swoop, his duster fell to the floor, hat to the side of the bed, then he bent back down to start pulling your pants off. You tried to rear back and kick his face, but nothing came of it, as he returned the favor with a slap across yours.  
You were done. This was insane. There was no fighting him. There was no winning. What was happening was not something you could stop.  
He went for your boots first this time, tossing them to the floor with a clunk.  
“Kick me again. Go ahead,” he teased, but it was rhetorical, the pants following suit. In just a short amount of time, you were bare and shameful.  
He stood back long enough to undo his belt, pulling his pants down enough to reveal himself. You didn't even bother to look at him. If anything, you were tired and wanted to sleep.  
Arthur swooped in, arms going under either side of your legs. Your sore muscles ached and screamed to stop being moved, but he pressed until he was over top of you. Lips to yours, he moved his hip and was inside of you, the movement against you painful and dry.  
You made little attempt to brace him, your hands at his chest to try and stop him from moving so roughly. This seemed to insult him, his right hand taking hold of your hair and exposing your neck.  
“I told you, you ain't a damn thing,” he panted against your skin. He let go, arms at either side of your head, hips moving in a hard rhythm. The bed creaked, the sound amplifying a growing headache.  
He began to move quicker, with less rhythm, until his head fell down near yours and the movements began to slow down. By the end, you felt grotesque. Why in the Hell had this became your fate?  
Arthur pushed off, and began dressing himself. You quickly followed suit, not wishing to be exposed any further.  
“What the fuck...is wrong with you?” you sighed. Everything that had happened – you wanted – needed – to forget it. This was a bad dream. This had never happened. The thoughts overwhelming, you sat at the foot of the bed, head resting on the wall, curled up to cope.  
“A lot of things. But one less thing now,” he said. He slowly paced to the door, cracking his neck as he walked. “What an interesting time. I needed that.”  
He looked over at you, but you kept your eye contact away from him.  
“I'll see you back at camp.” It wasn't a farewell, it was a promise. He opened the door, lightly closing it behind him. You heard him gallop off on his horse.  
With a heavy sigh, you curled up further, wondering what sins you had committed to deserve this. What you had done to deserve such torture. And somewhere in your mind, you knew this wasn't the last. After all, Hell was eternal, and Arthur was the Devil himself.


	3. Bitter Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cannot run, and you cannot hide. Arthur will find you, no matter where you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT. THE GRAND FINALE, MY FRIENDS. I've received SO MUCH feedback, both in the comments and other ways that people wanted a third chapter. I thought, "Really? HOW MUCH CAN I WRITE FOR THIS?" I have loved this series, and didn't want to get too repetitive, or it'd be boring. I wanted the third chapter to really just nail it. 
> 
> And here it is. It's taken a few weeks and some support, suggestions and guidance from a close friend of mine who also posts on this website. He was also enjoying it and gave me ideas on some things HE would like to see, i.e. forced begging. SO, YOU KNOW. On top of that, some days I hated myself for writing it. Other days I loved it. I mostly love it. But, as a writer, the process is strange.
> 
>  **Here. It. Is.** It's the longest chapter yet, and has a lot of fun little perks and twists in it for whatever your interests. It's a wild ride that I absolutely loved writing. Seriously. It's...a bit extreme in some ways. But, OH WELL. OH BOY. I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY THESE 7 PAGES OF RIGOROUS, AGGRESSIVE SMUT. 
> 
> This is it. The grand finale. It's done after this one, without a doubt unless someone commissions more. 
> 
> If you want something less, check out my other fic with John Marston.
> 
> Disclaimer - I am in no way condoning abuse, but instead use writing fictional characters to help express it for those who may enjoy it. I wrote it so the reader is ambiguous and can be whatever gender you prefer! 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. This story has some inspiration from a particular movie. :]

Freedom. That's all that kept playing in your mind. You had left the gang a few weeks ago. Of course, you did your best to make it seem as if you were killed.  
_”I'm going hunting. I'll be back in a few days.”_ As you and your horse galloped out of the camp, there Arthur was off to the side, watching you carefully. You gave him a quick glance, quickly turning to look ahead. It was the last time you planned to see him. Any of them.  
And the plan seemed to have worked. You had been living on your own for over a month now. Of course, you stayed to yourself, as far away from civilization as you could manage. But, upon arriving in Roanoke Ridge, your horse had perished.  
As such, even with your skills, you couldn't manage _everything_ on your own. Doing off jobs, you made some money. But, you needed clothing. Medicine. Things that were most easily procured from a town, because you didn't have the luxury of traveling around to find things for trade. Your cabin – as run down as it was – happened to be near the Van Horn trading post.  
The trip there wasn't too harsh, your bag empty. The weather was fair, though it was closer towards the evening. You felt strong and accomplished in how you had succeeded, even with the difficulties. This was your true meaning.  
Van Horn was peaceful, not too many people out. With some middling and searching, you were able to purchase most of the supplies you needed. Tonics. Some extra food. You were even given some information on how to acquire a horse. The information was in regards to illegally getting one, but that didn't bother you too much.  
With your pack full and your confidence large, you began to leave Van Horn on foot, leaving the boggy town behind you. The sun had nearly set on the day.  
“I see you're doing well.”  
The words made you froze, your limbs going numb and your heart speeding up. With the slightest turn of your head, you made eye contact with him. Arthur Morgan was walking into Van Horn near where you were leaving. His face was weathered, but just as emotionless and cold as you remembered it.  
You opened your mouth to speak, but what was there to say? If he thought you were a traitor before, the feelings were only amplified now. All your effort to escape, to be free of torment. It was for nothing. And why, after all you had done to escape it, was it still here?  
With a quiet gasp, you tossed your bag to the ground and ran. You didn't bother to look back to see if he were following you. You didn't care, whether he followed or not you would run. Your cabin rested not too far from Van Horn, but it was well hidden from the roads. If you could get to it, get to your weapons, you'd be safe.  
The trees surrounded you quickly, dark gray trunks and green leaves swirling past you. Your head was dizzy, stomach nauseous. Your body was running on pure instinct.  
There was your cabin in the distance, through the trees. Home. Safety. It was so close, you could smell the soaked wood and charcoal of the fireplace.  
But it wasn't enough.  
Right as the small clearing came to be, your body was knocked down, tackled from the right side. You hit the ground hard, pain bolting through your body starting at your arm and going through your ribs and neck. Before you could even yell, a hard thump to your head knocked you unconscious.  
***  
You blacked in an out of being conscious. Carried. You were being carried. A door shut. Your head hurt like Hell. Arm, too. You were sit down upright. Ropes. Ropes around your arms. Arms behind a chair. Were you tied into a chair? Probably. Your hands moved a bit. Not tied to the chair. Just tied and on the chair.  
It started to come together, piece by piece, your vision coming to. After a few hazy blinks, and a gasp of air, you were looking up at him. The bane of your existence. The root of all your torment and hatred. Arthur stood in front of you, tall, dressed as he usually was in his black outfit and hat. He was looking down upon you with pure hatred and mockery, relishing in his destruction of your sanctity.  
“I was worried. Thought you died,” he sarcastically said, taking hold of your jaw and lifting your head up to look at him. After a moment, his face scrunched slightly in anger and he started to squeeze your face. “But good thing I found you well and alive.”  
He let go of your face just to backhand you. You stiffened up, but refused to give him the pleasure of a sound.  
“Now why the Hell would you leave like you did if you weren't workin' for someone else?”  
You didn't say anything. You weren't giving him that pleasure anymore.  
Another slap, his hand again taking your chin to look up at him.  
“If you wanna' play this game, I assure you I _will_ win.”  
“You ain't won yet,” you muttered.  
A third slap. Your face hurt, but you just clenched your teeth.  
“Is that why you ran away? Because I lost?” His face was judgmental at your lack of answer. “I don't think so.”  
He was right. Arthur Morgan was not a dumb man. He had had the entire group under the guise he was there for their interest, that he cared for them. But he only cared for himself, and he knew how to get what he want. It seemed, however, all he wanted was your misery.  
“All the others _believed_ your little disappearing act, it seemed. You must've thought you had gotten away with it.”  
You kept your gaze to the floor, ashamed at your failures in escaping. He lifted your chin up to look at him in his cold eyes.  
“But we knew better.”  
A fourth slap, but less persistent than the others. He didn't want you down for the count yet. You knew he wouldn't kill you, deep down. He would've done that long ago.  
On the table behind him rested a few beer bottles. Without even moving from his position in front of you, he reached his hand back and took one, cracking it open on the table's side. He took a few sips, then held the bottle out to you.  
“Thirsty?” he hummed.  
You didn't answer, staring blankly into his blue eyes.  
“I see.” Another sip. Dropping the bottle back on the table, he stepped over to you, taking a fist full of your hair, tilting your head back. His lips met yours, parting them with his tongue. The sip of beer he had taken flooded your mouth and senses. A cough worked its way from your lungs, but he held the position until the beer made its way down your throat.  
He stepped back, crossing his arms as you spat.  
“You're a coward, Arthur Morgan,” you insulted in your fit.  
“Am I?”  
You expected another hit, but he just started at you, awaiting your defense as your lungs calmed.  
“Chasing me. Tying me up. How weak you gotta' be to make someone defenseless then act all tough?”  
_You fuckin' idiot. You couldn't fight him off before. Really gonna' try to now?_  
“Is that so?” Those three words hung in the air like thunder.  
“Alright then.” He pulled out a knife, blackened and sharp. You gasped, leaving Arthur with a quiet laugh. Moving to be behind you, he cut your arms free, then your legs. With a heave, he pulled you to stand by your shirt collar, pushing you by the chair. His boot hit the chair, kicking it over to the side of your small cabins. A few large steps back, and he was halfway across the room.  
“Go ahead. Show me how much of a coward I am.”  
“W-what?”  
“You said I'm a coward. You seem to think that you could win in a fair fight. So fight me.”  
You hesitated, heart beating. He was making a joke of you, because he knew you wouldn't win. _You_ knew you wouldn't win. And if you even thought to attack him, to go after him, he'd knock you down three times as hard.  
“You have a knife! A gun! That's not fair. You'll just use one of those on me.”  
He gave a laugh, and began to pace to you. Instinctively, you backed up, but he was upon you in quicker time. From the holster he pulled his gun, and that set more panic in. To your surprise, Arthur took hold of your hand, placing the gun in it, pulling the weapon up to hold over his heart.  
“Alright. Pull the trigger.”  
Fear gripped you, your body numb. This man was fucking crazy. This man had no fear. Arthur was the Devil himself, dressed in black and taking you to Hell.  
“I...uh....”  
He sneered at you, swiping his hand over the gun's hammer.  
“Go ahead. Do it.”  
But no matter that, you couldn't pull the trigger. Your hand felt like a ghost. The gun didn't even feel real to you.  
Arthur let out a sigh, twitching his eye.  
“That's what I thought.”  
Almost too gently for him, he took the gun from your hand, tossing it back where it belong on his belt.  
“You are _pathetic._ ” He paced around you, each step on the wood sounding loud in your ears alongside the beating of your heart. “In all our meetings, in all I've seen of you, I ain't ever seen someone as sad as you. You couldn't do things right back in Blackwater. Couldn't do shit right for the O'Driscolls. Even after I gave you a chance to come back and prove that maybe you weren't a worthless runt, you run off because you can't handle doing your damn job.”  
The words stung deep, a snake biting and releasing its venom. All he said hurt worse than any physical pain he had unleashed upon you. He was right.  
With one final large step, he stood in front of you, taller. Stockier. Terrifying in his physicality and mentality. What the Hell was Arthur Morgan?  
Something broke within you as the two of you stood in silence. Your heart, maybe. Soul. Something snapped, so much so that you thought you could hear it in your ears. The man that stood in front of you was just that – a man. A man who was stronger than you, but a man none the less.  
You lashed, running into him with a heavy grunt. The two of you fell to the ground with a thud, you landing on top of him. With what force you could muster, your face still stinging, you took his neck in one hand and punched his right cheek with the other. He made no noise, and you even managed to get a second punch in before he rolled the two of you over.  
“Should've shot me when you had the chance!” he hissed, choking you out with a death grip. He had a twisted smile across his face, standing out as your vision began to blacken, hands clawing at his arms to get free of him. He let go in enough time to bring you back, though. Arthur lifted you by the shoulders, pinning you against the wall.  
With a curt grin, he leaned in near you, smelling of tobacco.  
“You ain't tough. You ain't nothin'. When will you learn?”  
Maybe he was right. But at this point, your mind just swam with discomfort and confusion. It was hard to focus on what was right and what wasn't.  
With a rough touch, he took hold of your jaw, tilting your head left, then right. It was a sore touch.  
“Look at those bruises,” he said. “Proof of how weak you are.”  
A slight tilt upwards, and Arthur had exposed your neck, tight from his choke. Leaning in closer, he let his tongue fall over the mark, following with a sharp bite. This scared you, and you gave a soft gasp, trying to push him away by his chest.  
“Fight all you want. We both know you can't win,” he mocked, shoving you harder into the wall with his elbow at your neck. With a quick moment of thrashing beneath him, your nails hit his jaw, digging into the flesh and his scruffy, short beard. His leg swiped behind your own leg, toppling you down to your knees. He went down with you, one knee going under your left arm and pining it while he rested on the other knee.  
The position he had put you in was uncomfortably awkward. On your knees, one arm pinned by his knee and arm while he held the other arm by the wrist, twisting it at your side. It hurt, and from the look on his face, he knew that it did.  
“Are you _done_? “ he sighed.  
“Fuck you,” you grunted from the strain.  
He pushed harder, pinning your limbs with more pressure.  
“ ** _Fuck!_** ” was all you managed. Your pain just brought him a pleasurable smile.  
“Hurts, doesn't it?”  
A quick shove, and he had you to the dirty floor on your stomach, shoving your face into the wood and knee digging into your spine.  
“Goddamn, get off of me!”  
“I want you to beg for your pathetic life.”  
“Go fuck yourself!”  
“I said beg!”  
The man was crushing you. Breathing hurt, your lungs stinging under the pressure, and your spine felt like it was going to snap. The muscles around where his knee rested were tight and sore.  
“God, fuck,” you muttered inconsistently.  
“I'm waiting!”  
“For fuck's sake, stop!”  
“Beg me by name!”  
He took a wrist, twisting it behind your back, squeezing it.  
“ _Arthur, stop!_ ” You weren't trying to pander to him, but the words came without much thought.  
He rolled you to your back, knee this time in your chest. It hurt even worse than your back.  
“You will remember my goddamned name until the day you die,” he assured.  
“How long are you gonna' keep this up?” you asked through grit teeth and the floor.  
“As long as I want.”  
A tug, and he lifted you by your shirt, the threads giving slightly under your weight with the faintest of a tearing sound. With you in his hands, the two of you took a few steps back, running into your dining table. The brace behind you, he kissed you, his hands working under your clothes. Knowing you'd regret it, but doing it anyways, you bit his tongue.  
“No! Not again!” you protested with a violent shove, pushing him away and causing you to nearly topple over the dining table as it slid.  
“Ah,” he said, the single word falling into a horrid laughter. He seemed very irate, shoving the table far out of his way to reach you. Steps a mess, you backed away, feet tripping over themselves. Arthur followed suit.  
Feinting, you ducked and flew by his right side, trying to go around the table to the door. A heavy kick and the dining table was in front of the door with a scrape that hurt your ears. It was more of a distraction than a plan to stop you from leaving. Boots against the floor with a sound louder than thunder, he tackled you, careening you towards the bed. For but a moment, you were thankful for its soft sheets, but were terrified of the fact Arthur had pinned you, wrists above your head.  
You gave a futile attempt to struggle against him but ultimately quit, tired, sore and unable to move under his weight.  
“Oh, I've _missed_ you.”  
His free hand moved your jaw, Arthur taking pride in the pain he had caused you with a smile.  
“Do you get it now? Do you see how pathetic you are?”  
“Fuck – you.”  
“ _As you so wish_.”  
Lips meeting, more thrashing. He held tight, still, forcing his weight further.  
“Give. Up.”  
And you did. Why bother? You had survived it once – twice- and now thrice. Maybe it was just your fate to suffer. Maybe you  
deserved it for being weaker than him.  
“Damn. I cannot help but love the way you look right now.”  
Another kiss, sticky with his thick saliva, bitter with the taste of tobacco, a hint of liquor. He pulled away, panting, leaving your lips covered with it. When your head went back to avoid his eyes, his tongue fell to your neck, leaving small bites.  
“Let's finish this,” he insisted, ripping at your clothes. You fought. He hit you, and ultimately had his way, thin fabric of your pants tearing under his fingers, the cloth whisping around to the bed and floor.  
With haste, he undid his belt, falling over you with one leg over his shoulder, the other pinned under his leg. Positioning himself, and wasting little more of his time, he was inside you, thrusting roughly, holding himself up with his arms at either side of your head.  
“You're hurting me!” It was an instinct to say it.  
“Why don't you _beg_ some more?” he grunted.  
He wanted it to hurt, each movement slow and hard against your thighs and hips. Your pain only made him enjoy it more.  
Another kiss. How many times had he done it? You lost count, torn between the raw soreness he was causing and his lips at yours.  
It was hot. Sticky. Disgusting.  
“ _Damnit_ ,” he cursed breathlessly, angling to be just slightly higher, your leg burning at being pressed so far back, bracing his hips.  
He lifted his torso up, grabbing your chin.  
“Say my name. Beg me to stop.” The words came between his movements, still slow.  
“Go to Hell!”  
He laughed, fingers lowering to your neck, not only his hand taking the breath from you but the weight of his body.  
“Say it!” he demanded, releasing, but letting his fingers hang over the flesh, pushing your leg further up, thrusting to the point the bed seemed like it would break.  
Your body screamed at you, and out of desperation to end it, you obliged.  
“God, just _please stop, Arthur! _It hurts!”__  
His hand went back to the bed, and he sped up, huffing. A solid groan, and he slowed back down, releasing himself. Sweat glistened on his face as he caught his breath. You lay there, trying hard to ignore the pain and disgust you felt.  
Arthur pushed off, buckling his belt and stretching.  
“You can run wherever you like,” he began, watching you closely as you covered yourself with the furled sheet. “but I will _always_ find you.”  
“Why do you keep doing this to me?” It seemed like such a dumb question, but you asked anyway.  
“Because you make it so easy,” he sighed, glaring at you with disdain. “You're so weak. You're pathetic.”  
You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Looking over to the dying fire, you curled up further into the bed, because you knew he was right.  
For some odd reason – you couldn't really put any sense into his actions – he took the liberty of tossing firewood back onto the dwindling flame, the room warming in a soft glow. When done, he stood, looking down upon you one more time.  
By the fire behind him, he looked as if he had just walked straight out of Hell, and it was a tale you could believe.  
A tip of his hat and a sneer, and he left the cabin, shutting the door behind him with a creak.  
And as you rested on the bed, you knew in your broken heart that it would not be the last time you would see him.


End file.
